


Still Quite Naive

by misslizanne



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, how to lose a guy in 10 days
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-12 03:03:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2093226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misslizanne/pseuds/misslizanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma Swan, Composure magazine's resident How-To girl, can teach you anything. Even how to lose a guy. She's got ten days and her career on the line, but little does she know, she's picked Killian Jones and he will do just about anything to win her heart.</p><p>Based off the movie How to Lose a Guy In 10 Days</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Emma Swan can’t believe she’s here, at a bar on the Lower East Side, scouting out men like a cougar on the prowl. She never thought, after the countless hours of sweat, tears and blood she shed in graduate school, that she’d become  _this._

And by  _this_  she means Composure magazine’s resident How-To girl, offering women with low self-esteem tips on how to function in life by getting out of tickets, and rearranging furniture, and buying the best bikini for your body type.

 _This_  wasn’t what she had in mind when she left graduate school, diploma in hand, ready to take on the world of politics and religion and foreign affairs.  _This_ wasn’t what she dreamed of when she sat in that foster home in Brooklyn, ready to break free and fly.  _This_ wasn’t what she aspired to when she was released from juvie, eighteen and alone with a criminal record to her name.

But now, as she scans the bar for her victim, she feels a sense of relief because this article could give her the boost she needs to release Composure magazine from its prison of fluffy nonsense and give her the outlet to write what her hearts wants and  _needs_  to write.

“Anyone good?” her friend Mary Margaret asks as Emma continues to scan the room. And if she weren’t such a good friend to her co-worker, she wouldn’t even be in this predicament, because her friend, while a lovely person and a devoted confidant, is absolute shit when it comes to guys.

Mary Margaret is what one would call a "repeat offender." She’s the type that manages to check off everything on the list of stereotypical “don’ts” in each relationship she’s managed to find herself in and eventually becomes the clingy week-long girlfriend only to get brutally dumped in the process. And Emma elected to prove something to herself, to her friend and to their boss that those mistakes, while common in the world of dating, can cause any guy to run, even from someone like  _her_  (because she has walls and a complicated past and an ability to never be enough for anyone).

(Besides, she wasn’t going to let Tamara take her friend’s sorry excuse of a love life and turn it into a story that’s really dark but sort of  _upbeat_.)

“How about that one?” Emma says as she points to a frumpy man in a blue polo shirt, sipping on a Miller Lite at the bar, his toupee obviously placed backwards on his head.

“Ew, no,” Elsa, her other co-worker and cohort in this very immature operation, chimes in and shakes her head in disgust. “How about the one next to him?”

Emma cocks her head to the side and studies him. He looks halfway decent, brown hair, nice face, clean suit covering his torso. He appears normal, easy to crack. So she nods, sips on her martini before stepping forward to do exactly what she set out to do tonight: lose a guy in ten days.

* * *

It was his bloody tip that got them the Mills bid in the first place, the rights to advertise for Cora and Henry Mills, the biggest diamond sellers in the world. And yet, he’s here, at a bar on the Lower East Side, waiting for Belle French and Zelena Green to show up with his boss, Mr. Gold, so he can ambush them into giving him back what was rightfully  _his pitch_.

He knows exactly how to work this, knows he could woo Mrs. Mills into his good graces and prove to thousands of women that diamonds were exactly what they needed. He would be every man’s worst nightmare, because women were his specialty. He was  _Killian Jones_ , after all and he knew women like the back of his hand.

“Killian? Really?” He hears from behind him, spoken in that familiar accent of his redheaded adversary.

“Ah, Zelena, milady,” Killian croons as he quickly stands and grabs Zelena’s hand in his to lift it to his mouth, gently brushing his lips across her knuckles.

She rolls her eyes, snatching her hand away before she glares at Belle, who’s tucked into Mr. Gold’s side (as usual).

“I was hoping to run into the three of you,” Killian continues, gesturing for them to sit at the table he’s already managed to procure for them.

Mr. Gold furrows his brow. “I must say, I am slightly bewildered and amused by your presence, Mr. Jones.”

“Why  _are_ you here?” Belle chimes in, nuzzling into Gold.

“I want the Mills pitch back. It was my tip that got it in the first place.” Killian’s expression is stern, but he’s braced for rejection as Gold contemplates him.

The other man eventually shakes his head. “No, I don’t think you are ready for that. Zelena and Belle will take care of it.”

“Why?” he pushes, knowing this type of attitude may very well get him fired, but damn it, he wants the opportunity to advertise for something other than Nerf footballs, beer and sports equipment.

“Because, dearie, these ladies understand diamonds. They know what it’s like to want them, to need them, to pine for them. What do you know about that?” Gold chuckles, a slight scoff laced into his tone.

“I understand  _them_. I understand women, and I know they think diamonds are forever. Isn’t that how it goes, mate?” Killian raises an eyebrow before he picks up the champagne bottle from the bucket, pouring three glasses and handing them off. “But I’d like to change that. Diamonds  _are_  forever, I’m quite certain of that. But we can expand it to reach a broader market. Diamonds can be for  _everyone_.”

“What you imply is that diamonds aren’t rare, that everyone can have them.” Zelena sips from her champagne glass, raising her eyebrow in protest.

“You see, Killian,” Belle begins as she shrugs off her coat jacket, revealing a teardrop diamond necklace that hangs delicately off her neck, dipping into the low cut of her dress shirt. “Diamonds are a delicate rarity. And every girl wants one, just like they want love.”

Zelena leans forward, toying with the collar of Killian’s shirt. “Girls don’t want lust, Jones. They want love,  _true love._ That’s what a diamond represents.”

Gold nods. “And that is why Zelena and Belle will handle the Mills pitch.”

Killian shakes his head and scoffs. He can’t believe, after everything he’s done for this man, after all the hard work he’s put into every pitch he’s been handed, that this isn’t his. He didn’t move across the ocean to deal with this, he didn’t run here after the loss was too hard to bear to get shot down at the one thing he knows he could do and do  _well_.

“Bloody hell, this is preposterous,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I know about  _love_. And I can make any girl fall in love...”

“With you?” he hears, followed by Zelena’s soft hum. “If you can make a woman fall in love with you by the Diamond Ball, then the pitch is yours.”

“That’s in ten days, Zelena,” Gold protests. “It’s not enough time.”

Killian smirks, drumming his hands on the table. He is suave and sophisticated and most of all, devilishly handsome. Women grovel at his feet, and he’s barely spent a weekend alone since his move (the isolation of her loss too much to bear, the way it eats at his insides, crushes his heart each time she reappears in his memory until he finds himself sloshed as hell, fumbling with the zipper on some broad’s dress before his release hits and she writhes beneath him and the regret comes creeping back down his spine as he rushes her out of his apartment).

He can do this. Whoever she is, she will be a piece of cake because honestly, it’s him and he’s got cockiness and swagger and a debonair smile and she will turn to absolute putty in his hands.

“No, it’s enough time,” Killian reassures them. “Now, who’s the lucky lady, love?”

“Her. The blonde with the pretty smile.” Zelena points straight ahead to a tall blonde in a killer grey dress, cackling to her friends as she walks away from some chump at the bar.

She looks like a goddess, smile beaming and warming the cracks in his heart, her eyes sparkling even from this distance. She’s heavenly, and beautiful, and an absolute vision and he can’t help when the blood rushes south and his head swims because she’s everything he doesn’t need (she’s  _everything_ he thought he didn’t need, and now he’s wondering what he’s gotten himself into).

“Done.”

* * *

Every guy seems too nice or too weird or is actually a married tourist waiting for his wife to return from the bathroom and she’s only got ten days until her draft is due so it can hit newsstands everywhere in next month’s Composure and this looks like a complete failure from the get-go.

She needs to find somebody, and  _fast_ , or else Regina Mills, her stick-up-her-ass boss, will never let her write about things that matter, things that she’s interested in, and she'll be stuck as the How-To girl forever.

She excuses herself from her latest mistake to head towards the bathroom, downing the rest of her martini and handing the glass off to Elsa on her way. She should really just forget about the whole thing. Perhaps she could do an article on how to cure a hangover or how to wax your upper lip or stripes verses animal prints...

“Hi,” a voice jolts her from her thoughts, pinning her against the nearest wall, his strong arm firmly planted beside her head.

“Hi,” Emma responds, looking up to see soft blue eyes and tousled black hair and a jawline to die for that’s covered with a generous layer of scruff (she idly wonders what that would feel like between her thighs, a shot of heat going straight to her core and settling low in her belly before she can register that he’s stepped further into her space).

“I’m Killian, Killian Jones,” he says as he offers his other hand, his voice a gentle, British lilt as he scans her frame, his gaze lingering on the low cut of her dress, clearly peering into what’s hidden underneath there before returning that intoxicating stare to her eyes.

“Emma, Emma Swan,” she responds, not exactly sure what she’s doing here, her mind absolute mush before she remembers her plan, and she decides to find out if he’s the one (poor British sucker).

“Emma,  _Emma_ ,” he chants, the name rolling off his tongue like a prayer. She likes the way it sounds, and can’t help but lock onto the way he licks his lips after he says it. “Lovely name for a lovely woman.”

She blushes (goddamnit, she  _blushes_ and she doesn’t  _blush_ ). “Yours too... is lovely. I mean, it’s nice. It’s a nice name.”

He chuckles, warm and low, at her blunder before he lifts his hand to brush back a strand of hair, toying with it against her chin. “Single?”

“Correct,” she offers him, trying not to sway closer to his warmth, but she’s immune to him already, his heady scent of masculine spice drawing her in. “You?”

“Aye,” he murmurs, flashing his barren left hand in between them. “Hungry?”

She grins, wide and carefree as he inches closer. “Famished.”

“Seafood?” he says with a cute little tilt of his head.

“Perfect.” She watches as his eyes scan her face, settling on her lips. “Leaving?”

“If the lady insists.” He backs up and she can’t help but feel empty and suddenly cold because of it. “Meet you at the door, love.”

He lifts her hand to his lips, brushing a soft kiss over her knuckles, his eyes peering up to taunt her with his icy blue. He winks, the idiot  _winks_ , and then he’s gone, heading for the door as Emma turns to see Elsa and Mary Margaret basically dying in the corner.

She walks over, tries to put one foot in front of the other, feeling her knees unsteadily wobbling in his wake. He’s a guy, just a guy, and he means nothing. He can’t mean  _anything_ , and not only because she’s Emma Swan and she doesn’t do this and she won’t get involved with anyone beyond a one-night stand, but because in ten days, she’s going to lose him, and lose him hard. And if the way his eyes lingered on her face were any indication, this may be the dumbest and toughest thing she’s ever done.

“So who’s the guy?” Elsa taunts, nudging Emma’s shoulder as she and Mary Margaret eye him up at the exit.

“Killian Jones,” Emma whispers conspiratorially. “He seems alright. Normal, cute, decent. He’s British too. But don’t look.”

“Will it work?” Mary Margaret asks, looking over Emma’s shoulder anyway, which causes Emma to groan because she can see Elsa waving flirtatiously in his direction and she can guess by her friend's red cheeks that he winked in response (and the fact that she can picture him so clearly in her mind doing just  _that_ has all her defenses warning her to run).

“Yeah, I think so,” Emma sighs, taking Elsa’s martini and chugging the remnants. “Wish me luck, ladies.”

“Call us!” Mary Margaret orders.

Emma waves her hand at her, and then she’s heading for the door, smiling as Killian opens it for her, and heads out into the brisk New York City night.

Ten days.  _Ten days_ , and then he’s going to wish he’d never met her.

* * *

“So is this your car?” Emma asks, walking up to a Mercedes Benz parked in front of the bar.

He lets out a hearty laugh, the sound ringing out against the hustle and bustle of the city. She looks more beautiful out here against the lights of the skyline, her blonde hair shining against its glow as she crosses her arms over her chest (he recognizes that, it’s a defense mechanism, and he wonders why a woman as lovely as she would even need such a thing).

“Nope, my vessel of transportation, love, is right here.” He walks over to a motorcycle, throwing his leg over the seat. “I call her my Jolly Roger.”

“You’re kidding, right?” she scoffs as she hesitantly steps closer. “You expect me to get on a motorcycle in this dress?”

He smirks, raising one eyebrow as he fumbles behind him for a spare helmet. “Aye, and wear this ridiculous helmet. For safety reasons, of course.”

She hums as she takes it and places it on her head, giving him a kissy face as he fastens the strap around her chin.

“Love, you look positively adorable,” Killian whispers with a brush of his thumb across her cheek before he puts his own helmet on and gestures for her to join him. “Shall we be going?”

She throws her leg over the seat cushion and wraps her delicate arms around his waist, her soft curves fitting into his hard lines like a glove, even from this angle. He revs the engine before driving off towards his favorite restaurant, Ariel’s Cove, a little seafood joint hidden away on Fulton Street.

He really shouldn’t take her there, in fear of his dear friend Ariel finding out about her and interrogating the life out of the girl. Ariel was the first person who gave him a job, the first one who helped him when he came to the city and the closest thing to family he’s got. But he’s never brought anyone here besides his work mates (mostly because he’s never had any reason to) so it’s fitting he take this Swan girl, if only to offer her inside access to who he actually is and make her fall for him that much harder.

 _This is all for the pitch_ , he reminds himself.

“Ariel’s Cove,” she reads when she gets off the motorcycle, handing off the helmet to him.

Killian nods. “It’s got a remarkable imitation of fish and chips for an American establishment, if I do say so myself.” He offers her his hand in a gentlemanly manner, which causes her to scoff and then roll her eyes.

She marches past him, brushing him off. “I suppose you’re the expert, huh?”

“Well, I do have some knowledge in the area,” he whispers in her ear when he sidles up next to her, sending a visible shudder down her spine. He wonders if he can get her to do that again and mentally notes to make a habit of it for the next ten days.

“Well, I’ll have whatever you’re having,” she answers as he opens yet another door for her, guiding her in to order their food before walking them over to the docks to dig in.

The harbor is lined with boats, their masts swaying in the night breeze. The tall ships give him a comfort he dearly misses as their sails billow in the sea air, and he finds himself sighing as he looks upon them. The seaport is empty at this hour, and it’s just the two of them, feet dangling off the pier, much like he used to back home, before everything went to hell.

“So, when did you move to the states?” Emma asks, and he looks over to see her tearing her fish into pieces and popping them into her mouth.

“When I was about twenty,” he responds, trying not to ogle her, but finding it very hard to when she looks this breathtaking and he’s just some bloke that picked her up in a bar. “I lost someone and needed to get away.”

She peers up at him, hand gravitating over towards his. She clutches it in hers and squeezes. “I’m sorry. I... can imagine that wasn’t easy for you.”

“No, it wasn’t.” He turns his head, but lets his hand linger in hers. The ships are creaking against the waves of the bay and he finds himself breathing a little steadier at the sound of it. “But I met Ariel and her cousin Ruby and Ruby’s grandmother took me in for a while. Then I got a job working in a mailroom for an advertising agency and worked my way up to an executive position.”

He can see her smile proudly out of the corner of his eye, and it pulls him back into her. He scratches behind his ear, trying to quell the nervous uneasiness of his stomach, but he can’t seem to manage it. “What about you, Swan?”

“Oh, me?” She laughs and releases her hand from his to pick up a fry and munch idly on it. “I write for Composure.”

“Biggest women’s magazine in the country,” he adds, nudging her shoulder with his. “That’s a quite a feat, love.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not the greatest. I write the How-To article and I just...” It’s her turn to close off, to ponder her thoughts, and he tries to read her, decipher the concern etched into her features, the dreams she won’t tell anyone for fear of rejection. “I just want to write about something that matters. I want to make a difference.”

“Someday you will.” He scoots nearer to her, inhaling the scent of vanilla and coconut and something distinctly feminine, drunk on the feel of her.

“You think so?” she asks, turning her head quickly. She looks stunned, as if nobody’s ever told her she could follow her dreams and succeed. It makes his heart clench to think she’s never received such praise from another, and it angers him in a way he doesn’t fully comprehend.

“Aye,” he murmurs on a soft exhale. He tilts his head down, attempting to search for her lips with his before she turns away. It’s not a complete rejection, because he can see the pretty blush creeping its way up her neck, blossoming on her cheeks. “Want to go back to my place?”

She shoots him a glare, cold and practiced before it softens into a warm smile. “That would be perfect.”

* * *

His apartment isn’t far from the seaport, and the drive is actually quite refreshing. She’s still being naive about this whole thing, because as far as he’s concerned, she’s falling for him and she kind of thinks she could if it weren’t for this whole article thing and the fact that she’s Emma Swan.

When they enter, it smells like him, strong and masculine, and she fights the urge to push him up against the door and have her damn way with him (can’t blame her for wanting to have a little fun with the guy before she purposefully screws it all up).

“I’m just going to freshen up,” she suggests and he cocks his head towards a short, narrow hallway in the back.

“Second door on the left.”

She smiles politely as she steps away, fishing through her bag for her cell phone and dialing Mary Margaret’s number once she closes the door. It rings once, then twice, and then she hears Elsa’s giggle of excitement as Mary Margaret answers.

“Hey you! How’s Mr. Good-Looking Brit?” she taunts, and Emma can actually see the way those two are hovering by the phone like jealous schoolgirls chatting about their crushes on a Friday night (she thinks maybe working at Composure has turned them into sappy goo).

Emma bites her lip. “He’s good. Actually, he’s  _too_  good. We’re back at his apartment.”

“Emma!” Elsa shouts, and she hears Mary Margaret’s slap of disgust through the phone. “Are you gonna do it?”

“Are you fourteen?  _Are you gonna do it_?” Emma mocks. “No, I’m just going to give him a taste of Emma Swan before I make him wish he’d never laid eyes on me.”

“You are crazy,” Mary Margaret returns.

Emma exhales. “Remember, I’m doing this for  _you_.”

“I know,  _I know._ ” Mary Margaret sighs. “Go have a little fun with your lover boy.”

She hangs up, leaving Emma alone in the bathroom. She bites her fingernails, contemplating her next move when she hears the soft jazz music floating from another part of the apartment, making her think of scandalous things that would have him squirming within minutes. A little fun,  _indeed_.

She walks down the hallway and finds him in his bedroom, swaying nonchalantly to the music, two beer bottles in his hand.

“A beer, milady?” he asks, offering her one of them.

She takes a swig before lying down on his bed. She pats the space next to her and he chuckles, tongue marking a sinful trail against his upper lip. He shakes his head as he backs up and sits down on the dresser across from her, tapping the space next to him.

She smirks, takes another swig of her beer before getting up to sit with him. “Fine. You win.”

He grins as he studies the dark room, the sliver of moonlight coming in through the window. He looks darker, more mysterious in this lighting, the scruff of his beard that much more inviting. She notices he’s unbuttoned his shirt more, revealing a thin layer of dark hair, and she fights the urge to run her fingers across it and under his shirt, tracing the lean muscles of his stomach. She may be running an immature operation here, but she’s still a woman with all the working parts, and right now all they want is  _Killian_.

She exhales, smiles coyly before she leans over, grasping the back of his head and pulling him into her, crashing her lips onto his. He stills and leans back a little.

“Hey, love,” he whispers, her hand still gripping his unruly black hair. “Wouldn’t want to move too fast, now would we?”

She frowns, then pulls away. “No, we wouldn’t.”

“It would be bad form,” he continues, studying her as she stares blankly out into the bedroom.

She shakes her head. “I suppose you’re right.”

She could feel his gaze burning into the side of her face and then her beer is suddenly leaving her hands, placed to the side haphazardly in exchange for his hand in her hair and his chest against hers and his lips suddenly back to where they’d left, crushing into hers with a ferocity she hadn’t expected.

He lifts them both up, sinking into the kiss as his other arm wraps around her waist, molding them together from the waist up. He's insistent, his lips relentlessly moving against hers, his tongue sliding past her lips on her breathy moan, capturing it and offering it back with a pleased grunt. He guides them towards his bed, crashing down onto it with her beneath him, lips still caressing hers, his hands fumbling to roam her body.

“We... we’re moving...  _oh god yes please_ ,” she manages to say as he trails his lips down her neck, sucking on her pulse point, eliciting a quiet whimper from her. “We’re... moving... too  _fast_.”

He groans into her neck. “Aye, you’re right,” he exhales against her skin, attempting to disentangle himself from, his eyes dark and heavy and filled with lust as he looks down at her, really takes her in, her heart clenching at the heat of his gaze.

“I want you to... respect me,” she begins, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.

“I am a man of honor, love,” he states, tone serious as he lifts a hand to brush the hair away from her face. “I would very much like your respect.”

“Good,” she offers, smiling a little.

“Good,” he repeats. “Besides, I am always a gentleman.” He winks, and she can’t help the breathless chuckle that falls from her lips.

* * *

He’s absolutely entranced by her, can’t seem to stop thinking about her, and even though he saw her to the elevator and said his goodbye and kissed her cheek, he rushes to the fire escape, his mind racing like that of a teenage boy who just had his first kiss.

“Goodnight, Emma Swan!” he shouts, and she looks up, flashes him that damn siren smile of hers and leans against the taxi door.

She waves playfully, folding one arm across her torso. “Goodnight, Killian Jones.”

He grins, toothy and smug and he can’t help but feel like he’s won already.

“Oh, you are already falling in love with me,” he mutters to himself, leaning against the railing of his fire escape.

She blows him a kiss, then ducks into the taxi.

What he doesn’t hear are the words she whispers under her breath (“I’m going to make you wish you were dead, sucker”) before she closes the door and drives away.


	2. Chapter 2

He shouted after her, actually wished her goodnight, and he has no idea what he’s gotten himself into, the hell that he’s just unleashed upon himself simply for being attracted to her.

 _Poor guy_ , Emma thinks as she works through the beginnings of this article, biting her lip to keep from smiling like an evil villain.

The next nine days are going to be rewarding, though, because she can see the light at the end of the tunnel, her dream of being a real writer summoning her like a beacon. All she has to do is drive this idiot away, and then she’s got herself a killer story and a new future and the career she’s always wanted.

It’s then that she remembers his blue eyes, rimmed with lust, wanting her, studying her, _needing_ her and it makes her feel almost sorry for him. He likes her, genuinely _likes_ her, and she’s going to ruin it for him with all the things Mary Margaret would do after a night like that, the crazy antics that would make him run for safety (she thinks of her walls and never being enough and speculates if just being herself could get the job done, without the ridiculous charade she’s about to put on).

She hears audible gasps from the steps of her office floor and then Mary Margaret is rushing behind three men holding oversized bouquets of white lilies, flagging Emma down as she approaches.

“One hundred times,” Mary Margaret begins as she pulls a card from each of the bouquets. “More beautiful... than a hundred lilies on a summer day.”

“Real catchy,” Elsa mocks as she takes a bouquet and places it on her desk, watching as the other two do the same.

“The guy’s in advertising. He can’t help it,” Emma says with a shrug, tossing the cards carelessly onto her desk.

Elsa raises an eyebrow. “Does this mean he’s _hooked_?”

Emma chuckles at the retort, because he does kind of look like a real life imitation of the storybook character, if Disney went for broody, masculine and sex personified instead of a waxed mustache, a ridiculous perm and a sincere fear of crocodiles. She’ll have to remember that for later, as she starts to brainstorm pirate related puns she could unleash on him.

Then it dawns on her, the one reason he’d take the time to send such an outrageous gift after one kind of date eating seafood from Fulton Street.

“No, this means Killian found the Yankees tickets.”

Mary Margaret signs for the flowers and then turns in disbelief. “Wait, the tickets that Sports Illustrated guy sent you yesterday?”

“Yeah, I kind of left them in my purse, and then left my purse at his place,” Emma snickers, biting her lip to keep her excitement at bay.

“Girl, you are on a whole different playing field,” Elsa jokes before the phone rings, the caller ID reading _Killian Jones_.

Emma smirks, picks the phone up and gives her best “Emma Swan” in a cheerful, upbeat tone.

Let the games begin.

* * *

“So you’re telling me we can’t have the pitch until you win some stupid bet?” David asks as he enters Killian’s office, frowning as he does so. “Winning a girl over in _ten_ _days_?”

He can’t help but snicker because David, of all people, _would_ get angry at the prospect of probability and chance holding their careers at bay (the bloke was never any good at poker anyway).

“You needn’t worry, Dave,” he reassures him.

Emma’s already falling for him, as far as he’s concerned, the clear signs of smitten beginnings blossoming between them in the way she looked at him all doe-eyed at the seaport and the way she writhed beneath him for that way-too-short encounter on his bed (her exhale of _oh god yes please_ still haunts him). She’s into him, he just  _knows_ it, and he’s got this all under control. Hell, he wonders if there’s an added incentive if she falls in love with him in five.

"I've got nine more to go." Killian tosses his football across the room. “And this Swan girl is most certainly _hooked_.”

His other mate, Robin, catches it. “So now, you just have to make her fall in love with you?”

Killian nods. “Aye, and then Zelena and Belle will give us back the diamond bid.” He smirks as he catches the football thrown back in his direction. “Besides, the lass left her handbag at my place last night. She has no choice but to contact me again.”

Robin grins mischievously as he slinks towards the bag placed on the desk. “What’s in it?”

Killian waves him off. “Don’t even. There are things a woman possesses that the male species should never see. It would be bad form to rifle through her bag.”

“Just one little peek won’t hurt, mate,” Robin suggests, catching the football. “I promise I’ll put all her lady stuff back.”

David groans and heads for the door. “You two are immature and insane,” he mutters as Robin lobs the football towards his head in jest, accidentally knocking the handbag off Killian’s desk instead.

It tumbles to the floor, the insides spilling out, and the three of them quickly crouch down to inspect it. Lip gloss, hair bands, a few tampons, her credit cards and a wad of cash all spread across the floor. But there’s an envelope still partially stuck in the bag, and Killian pries it out with careful hands to examine it.

He opens it and immediately his eyes go wide with delight. There are two Yankees tickets in there, two tickets to the coveted ALCS series (the tickets he couldn’t snag, even though he practically advertised for every bloody company involved in it) and suddenly he wonders if there’s more to this woman than meets the eye.

* * *

Her voice is calm and collected when she picks up her phone as Elsa and Mary Margaret huddle around her desk. She can’t help the wicked smirk that builds on her lips as she hears him sigh contentedly upon her greeting.

“Hey beautiful,” Killian greets back, and she can already picture the smug grin growing on his stupid, _stupid_ face.

She chuckles. “So I just got a really embarrassing display of white lilies from some guy in advertising.”

“You are _very_ welcome, love,” he returns, and then pauses. “I had a really wonderful time last night, but it appears you left your handbag in my possession.”

Emma grabs one of the filers off her desk and begins working absentmindedly on her nails, crossing her legs as she leans back in her chair. “I know. I’m such a mess. I can’t _believe_ I left it there.”

Elsa breaks out into a giggle fit, having to cover her mouth as Mary Margaret whispers, “You’re so bad, Emma.”

She can’t help but smirk that much harder. This is _way_ too fun, and this poor sucker has no idea what he’s getting himself into.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll be needing it back, love,” he goes on. “What with all the cash, credit cards and those Yankees tickets for this evening's game.”

She tries not to jump for glee, but he found them and the trap worked and this is all going according to plan, and now, all she needs to do is get to the game and then start screwing it up Mary Margaret style.

“Sounds like somebody’s been peeking through my bag,” she teases, placing down the file to twirl her hair (even on the phone, she’s flirting like a teenage girl, and she kind of likes this side of herself, fake as it may be).

Killian chuckles, and it’s low and husky and exactly how it sounded last night when he was rough and needy and fumbling for purchase against her body (she has to cross her legs a little harder to quell the burning ache that’s abruptly formed at the rich sound of his voice).

“Absolutely not, Swan. You see, my mate Robin is a bloody oaf and managed to knock it over.”

She hears a thump, and then a voice speak up. “Aye, darling. That would be me. Clumsy, clumsy Robin.”

She laughs, warm and bright and the carefree smile that forms on her face forces Elsa to give her a once over. “Well, I wish I could take you but I’m taking my friend, Mary Margaret.”

She can almost feel the way he senses her bluff, because he clears his throat and exhales lightly at her response. “No, you’re not, love. You’re bluffing. Besides, I don’t entirely believe you left your purse here by accident.”

“Oh _really_ now?” Emma’s got one eyebrow raised and she wishes she could see him, if only to slap the growing grin off his face (or kiss it off, either one would work).

“I think subconsciously you were dying to take me to that game, so you left it here for that exact purpose,” he continues, and she can hear the male giggles behind him, his co-workers getting a kick out of the way he grovels for her to take him. “And denying your subconscious what it truly desires is poor for your health, young lass.”

This is exactly where she wants him, and she can’t subdue the cackle that erupts from her throat.

“I suppose you’d say it would be _bad form_ ,” she taunts, and he laughs.

“Of course I would, love.”

She waits a moment, then another, watching as her two friends look on with earnest expressions, awaiting her decision.

“Alright, alright, _fine_ ,” she finally says, and she can hear him clap his hands in triumph. “Meet me at the third base entrance. Seven-thirty. Don’t be late, sailor.”

“You got it, Swan. See you then.”

She hangs up the phone and she's immediately startled by Mary Margaret's squeal of enthusiasm, looking up to see Elsa grinning like a fool at Emma's decision.

She nods once, crosses her arms across her chest in victory. “And that, ladies, is how it’s done.”

* * *

When she meets him, she looks more stunning that he’d remembered, flowing blonde hair cascading across her shoulders, a tight fitted Jeter jersey hanging off her delicate torso. She’s got jeans on that hug her curves in all the right places and he has to shove his hands in his pockets for fear of grabbing on to her hips and making an absolute idiot of himself on the sidewalk.

He’d hollered in success after she’d hung up, taunting David and Robin that he’s as good with the ladies as he is at his job because this was working out surprisingly well, before sauntering around the office like he was on top of the world.

And he can’t help but feel overjoyed, considering the way she's coyly smiling as he guides her inside and to their seats behind home plate, or the way she's leaning into him so she can snag a French fry from his lap, or the way she's jumping out of her seat when the first baseman fumbles through a routine double play.

It makes him that much more smitten with everything about her (and he hopes, vice versa).

“Oh, come on, you could have made that! Jesus freaking Christ!” she roars, pointing at the field with the ridiculously large foam finger she’d strong-armed him into buying for her.

He looks over and chuckles and she furrows her brow in response.

“What?” she asks, shy smile growing on her lips.

“You look cute when you’re loud and passionate,” he responds, leaning in close to whisper it into her ear.

She smirks, bites her lip as she sways towards him. “I’m always _loud_ when I’m passionate.”

His eyebrows practically fly into his hair as all the blood rushes south and he wonders if he can get her _oh god yes please_ to sound more like an ear-shattering cry for release. “I look forward to... uh... experiencing that, love.”

She hums, looks away as the innings change and the visiting team takes the field before music begins to pulsate throughout the stadium. Couples are flashing up on the big screen, and he suddenly realizes the kiss cam portion of the game is beginning. He stills when he sees the big, corny heart appear around them.

“Oh, look! Killian, that’s us!” she gleefully shouts as she points up at it, jumping with excitement.

He scratches behind his head because suddenly he’s nervous, the suave, debonair man he usually is in a situation like this (not that there’s been many) disappearing and virtually flying out of the stadium.

(But she’s happy and excited at the prospect of them on the kiss cam and he knows it’s because she’s falling for him, that she’s just as taken by him as he is with her, and that’s a really, really _good_ thing.)

She glances over at him, and he registers the chants from the crowd as they mull over the idea to kiss before she’s leaping forward, tangling her hands around his neck and kissing the bloody life out of him. Her mouth moves against his hungrily, her hands toying with the hair at the nape of his neck before pulling away and biting her lip, blushing as the crowd cheers for them.

God, this woman is beyond in love with him. She is downright _infatuated_.

* * *

The night is going well. She’s behaving, for the most part, because the game is actually really interesting, and the Yankees are tied so it’s vital that she stay invested (and his lips tasted like beer and salt and it should disgust her, but instead, it created this heat across her skin that she _still_ can’t seem to shake, so she doesn't mind that she's played it safe for the majority of the night).

However, she needs to throw something in to catch him off guard, to make him wonder if she’s normal or insane or else this will be nothing more than a routine fling she can add to her sorry list of male suitors.

She thinks back to her own vault of tricks, things she’s done to drive men away (not that there’s been many, one night stands don’t really require much besides sneaking out at three in the morning before he wakes up). She remembers her last _real_ relationship, the teenage fling with Neal that ended in disaster and jail and a beyond broken heart, and that he always hated when she was thirsty at the most inopportune moments. She distinctly recalls doing it during the eleventh inning of a Mets game, causing him to miss the walk off home run they earned to win the whole thing (it didn't even matter that they were watching it on a television in a hotel room that he broke into, or that the picture was grainy and one of the speakers was out).

She knows Neal was pissed, furious for weeks and she’s almost sure it’ll work with this guy too. Brits care about a good game just as much as Americans do, regardless of the sport.

“Killian, _Killian_ ,” she interrupts as he groans when the catcher hits into a ground out. “Honey, I’m thirsty.”

He glares at her, gesturing to the field. “Love, there’s one out left. The next bloke up has the highest home run count in the league. Can’t it wait?”

She shakes her head, pouts playfully. “Please, I’m parched. I just need something to drink.”

“But... I... we’re...” he stumbles.

She pushes past him with an exhale. “No, no forget it. I’ll go get it myself.”

He stops her, places both hands on her shoulders and sighs, long and exasperated, and she’s got him right where she wants him, slightly bothered but willing to do what she asks. “No, I’ll go. Diet Coke? No ice?”

She nods, and watches as he glides up the steps two at a time to fetch her soda, scornfully hoping that there’s a home run to cinch this game and his complete hatred of all things _her_.

* * *

A Diet Coke, with one out left, and one of the best home run hitters in the damn game coming up to bat? Is she bloody _kidding_?

He may be British and know nothing more than the basics of the art of baseball, but it’s a _game_ and he’s a _man_ , so it matters to him on some level (the level that’s attached to his job and the need to know what he’s advertising for) and now he’s racing up to the concourse, rushing to the currently empty food stands, hoping this batter keeps the at bat alive in time for him to get back to his seat.

He darts his eyes between the television monitor hanging behind him and the worker in front of him.

“Diet Coke. No ice.”

The worker waves him off. “Next window, buddy.”

He groans, hops over the railing with trained ease and scurries to the next one, locking stares with an older gentleman behind the counter.

“Diet Coke, sir. No ice.”

He slaps a twenty on the counter, knowing the drink probably costs far less but it’s all he’s got and there’s no time for change, and _damn it_ , this bloke isn’t moving fast enough.

The worker fumbles with the cup. “Oh no, did you want a small?” he asks as he tries not to spill the dark, fizzy beverage.

“No. I want that one!” Killian’s fidgeting, shifting his feet impatiently as he waits for the soda. “Keep the change, sir.”

He snatches it, glances up at the screen (there’s another meeting at the mound between Oakland’s catcher and pitcher, _bless the gods_ , and this particular batter is good at fouling off to keep himself in the game, so he’s fine, he made it, Diet Coke be damned).

He chucks a straw into it and makes a beeline for the steps, leaping down them, back to her.

“Here you go, love,” he states almost breathlessly, and he can’t help but feel less annoyed when she beams up at him (warm and relaxed and god, her face is beautiful when it lights up like that for him) before turning her attention back towards the game.

The batter earns a second strike, and Killian grows agitated, shouting several choice slurs he’s sure she’s never heard before he feels her tap his shoulder.

“Killy, it’s not diet,” she shouts over the cheers from the crowd. “It’s not diet, Killy. Can you get me a diet?”

Seven hells, is she kidding? The count is full and she wants him to get it now? (And _Killy_? Is she five?)

He scowls at her, pinches the bridge of his nose to calm himself from saying something he really shouldn’t before he pivots and heads up the stairs again, hearing her praise of thanks as he leaves.

She’s impossible tonight, and here he’d thought she’d be halfway decent, considering how consumed she was with the game (which is a rare trait to find in a woman of such caliber as she) but this is just out of _hand_. Just drink the damn soda, woman. Who cares if it’s not diet?

And now he wishes he’d just said no as he hears the familiar crack of the bat, the cheers from the crowd, and he rushes into the concourse just in time to see the baseball glide effortlessly over the farthest point of the stadium, the Yankees winning game one in nail-biting fashion.

And he didn’t get to see it, because this Swan girl decided she was too parched and needed a bloody soda.

He waits for her at the stairwell, following her down quietly as he thinks this through. This is only day two, and he's got eight more days after tonight before he can win the pitch back. That’s the shining incentive for whatever it was he just put up with. Eight more days until his career can flourish and he can be who he set out to be when he moved to the States. _Eight more days._

He wants to say he’s frustrated, tell her that what she did was inconsiderate (this is exactly why he doesn’t do relationships), but when she intertwines her hand with his while they stroll outside, all thoughts of anger and annoyance seem to dissipate at the warmth her touch seeps into him.

She leans into his side. “What a great game,” she states, still coming off the high of a win. “I mean, I have never seen a more exciting game in my life!”

He hums. “Aye, neither have I.”

She bumps his hip, gestures to the nearby taxicab before letting go of his hand. “Too bad you missed it, _mate_.”

He shakes his head, because even she knows her soda debacle was a selfish move, _bad form_ and all, but he can’t help but feel mesmerized by the sashay of her jean-clad hips as she saunters towards the vehicle.

She opens the door, throws her handbag in before turning around to look at him. He’s closer than he intended, his legs forcing him towards her like a moth to a flame.

“So, Killian Jones, are you as nice as you seem?” she asks, biting her lip as she studies him.

“Nope. I’d like to say I’m more of a dashing rapscallion.” He leans down, steals a quick kiss from her, then pecks her on the cheek, feeling the way the apples of her cheek lift up alongside her smile.

It makes him feel lighter, _warmer_ , and he knows she must feel it too.

“Rapscallion?” she teases, their faces mere inches apart from one another.

He raises an eyebrow and gives her his most devilish of smirks. “Scoundrel?”

“Hmm, I like that better,” she muses, her eyes darting between his lips and his eyes.

He licks his lips when she focuses on them, watches as her eyes track the movement and swallows hard because all he wants to do is kiss her again (push her up against the bloody taxicab and have his goddamn way with her, how does she manage to do _that_?). “What about you, Swan?”

She chuckles. “Not in the slightest.”

She ducks into the car, but he wants more, wants to kiss her and hold her and _feel_ her and he’s never felt this way before (well he has, but he’d like to think that _that_ and _this_ are two completely different entities).

“Can I see you tomorrow night?” he quickly asks before she’s shut the door, and she peers up, studies him as he leans against the car, peeking his head down to force her to meet his gaze.

“Maybe.”

She’s playing coy, but her expression appears to give her away as her smile grows, and she’s like a siren pulling him into water (he feels he might drown on the feelings she’s eliciting from him, but this is all for play, this is for the _pitch_ , at least he thinks so).

“Dinner? My place?” He feels like a crazed lunatic, body and mind racing as he awaits her response.

“I think I can manage that,” she assures him, biting her lip to keep her grin at bay. “See ya later, Jones.”


	3. Chapter 3

“So you made him miss the end of the game?” Elsa laughs in disbelief.

Emma nods furiously as she bites her lip, remembering the way his face contorted into full-blown annoyance and downright anger when she claimed her drink wasn’t diet (how the hell she would know is besides the point, because they practically taste the same to her, not like she even cares, she hasn’t given a thought to her weight in years).

“Yep,” she nods, unwrapping the double bacon cheeseburger from its confines and taking a huge bite of it. “And he  _still_ asked to see me again. Tonight.”

Mary Margaret shakes her head. “This guy must be clinically insane.” She shifts her salad in the bowl before gathering a forkful of lettuce. “So what sort of mischief do you have planned for day three?”

“Well, I have a box full of lady products sitting in my apartment,” she begins, causing both women to moan in disgust. “ _What_? It's just a few boxes of tampons, sanitary pads, deodorant, a few razors and that collection of really sparkly nail polishes Elsa's sister gave me for Christmas. I think I even threw in a copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul for his bathroom reading pleasure.”

“Did you raid an aisle at Walgreen’s?” Elsa jokes, taking a bite of her sandwich.

Emma shovels another heap of cheeseburger into her mouth. “Pretty much. Plus, I rounded up some old CDs I've been meaning to get rid of.”

“Like Shania Twain and Britney Spears?” Mary Margaret questions, sitting on the file cabinet across from Emma’s chair, her back pressed against the outer wall of her cubicle.

“Worse. Think more along the lines of Spice Girls and Celine Dion,” Emma responds with a chuckle. "I think I even threw in an old Carly Simon record, for good measure."

She knows she's thought way too much into this, the exact song she’ll play when she gets there ( _Wannabe_ ), the way she’ll arrange every drop of pink she’s purchased to immerse his apartment in a girly hell (there’s a blanket for his bed and a matching bathroom rug and this godawful potpourri she almost barfed on in Walgreen's), the exact shelf she'll place this stupid plant she bought because some lunatic therapist on the internet said to buy a love fern as a sign of a growing relationship (okay, even that seemed ridiculous to  _her_ but it’ll just add another ounce of stupidity atop this already crazy operation).

The old Emma would say she’s gotten out of hand, that  _this_  is as far from her graduate school studies as she could possibly be, but she’s using this to get back to that version of herself, the one that writes what she thinks and doesn’t have to worry about laser hair removal or liposuction or the best shoes to match your calf muscles.

“How’s that article coming along, Miss Swan?” a steely voice cuts through her thoughts, jolting them instantaneously from their lunchtime reverie and Regina Mills rounds the corner, steps into the cubicle and glares towards Emma.

Her boss is tough, committed and determined, and above all else, difficult when it comes to the contents of her magazine. Regina was practically handed the position at Composure, what with her world famous parents, the lucrative diamond dealers of New York City, and she’s been firm in her overall vision of the publication: a woman’s handbook to all the secrets she needed to know, but were too afraid to ask about.

Emma can appreciate the work ethic behind Regina’s constant stick-in-the-mud attitude, but she’s never totally been on board with that mantra.

“Great,” Emma tries to say with a mouthful of burger, swallowing quickly before dabbing her mouth clean. “Just great, Regina. Found the guy and everything.”

“That’s wonderful,” the other woman responds, a slight smile quirking at the corners of her lips (although it looks more like a forced grimace, though Emma can never really tell with her). “When are you going to see him again?”

“Tonight,” she reminds herself, running through her mental checklist of tricks. “I’m going to dinner at his place.”

“Good,” her boss chimes in, sighing a little. “I have a really good feeling about this one, Emma.”

“Yay,” Emma cheers, attempting to sound more enthusiastic than she actually is. If anything, she’s more entertained that she’s playing the poor sucker than she is by the actual writing of the article (she hopes he doesn’t find it, that she’s ambiguous enough that he won’t look for it, but she hasn’t thought that one through, considering she told him where she works on day one,  _shit_ ).

Regina grins, calculated and professional before she pivots and heads for her office.

Mary Margaret finally lets out the breath she’s been holding since Regina turned the corner, causing Elsa to snort. “Dear god, I hate when she sneaks up on us like that.”

“She’s always so stiff too,” Elsa adds. “Like  _Miss Swan, will you be seeing your male lover friend this evening?_ Ha, maybe we could hook her up with one of the giggle boys your guy works with!”

Regina turns around, scowls at Emma’s co-workers and hurries back. “I heard that, you two,” she scolds, and both of her co-workers cringe, as if the principal has just written them up (her boss is well-trained in invoking fear, she'll give her that). “And Emma?”

Emma hums in Regina’s direction. “Yeah?”

“Do take smaller bites this evening,” Regina suggests, turning her nose up at the oversized burger. “We want to drive him away, but we certainly don’t want him to think you’re some sort of barbarian.”

“Duly noted, ma’am,” Emma jests with a salute of her right hand, and Regina turns, shakes her head scornfully as she saunters off, the click of her heels echoing against the hardwood of their office floor.

Emma takes an obscene mouthful of her cheeseburger once Regina is out of her line of sight, which has the other two women bursting over in laughter and she unexpectedly thinks of a new tactic to use on dear old Jonesy, depending upon the dinner menu.

* * *

“So did you see the big home run last night?” Robin asks as they sit in Killian’s office, watching as David draws up another one of those Budweiser ads for Sports Illustrated.

“I didn’t see a damn thing,” Killian grumbles, perusing the web for articles about the game. “The broad had me get her a soda with one out left and Teixeira up at bat.”

“That sucks, man.” David apologizes, getting up to fetch a batch of colored pencils. “You seeing her again?”

Killian nods. “Yeah, tonight actually. Going to make her my famous venison dish.”

He’s had women over before (mostly one-night stands that accidentally turned into two before he never returned their calls) and this dish, while odd in its description, was actually the most delicious thing most of those women had ever tasted, besides him,  _of course_. Without it, he’s just  _Killian_  and while that works 99% of the time, sometimes a woman needs to wined and dined before she’s ravaged and plundered, to put it bluntly.

“Venison?” David wonders aloud. “What if she’s got an issue with eating straight-up deer?”

Killian twirls around in his desk chair to face him. “It’ll be fine, Dave. You’ve both had it before at poker night and neither one of you are deathly ill.”

“Yeah, but we’re guys.” Robin sighs and rubs his jaw. “And she’s a  _girl_. And you have to make her fall in love with  _you_. Cooking Bambi may be the nail in the coffin.”

“Stop being such drags,” he suggests, waving his mates off. “You’ll drive yourselves insane.”

David snorts. “I think you’re the one who’s insane, considering...”

“Bugger off,” he mindlessly utters, turning back to his computer. “Besides, you both know it’s usually my ‘get her in the sack’ dish, and you’re just jealous because there’s a huge chance I’ll be getting laid tonight.”

“Geez, he’s been feeding us that for five bloody years,” Robin begins to joke, David snickering because he just  _knows_  where this is going. “And not once have I been summoned to his bed chamber. I’m slightly offended, Jones.”

Killian grumbles as they return to their work, ignoring the absurd comments still coming from his mates and vaguely entertains the idea of Emma Swan in his bed instead, soft curves pliantly moving against his satin sheets, moaning out his name into his ear, coming undone around him and for him, her skin flushed and sweaty as she whimpers, wrecked from his ministrations.

He thinks he’d better lose that train of thought fast, lest he wants to excuse himself from the room, and pulls up the stats for game two to occupy his mind in the meantime.

(It barely works.)

* * *

As she makes her way towards the elevator with a cardboard box full of goodies to make him squirm, she almost feels sorry for him (and there it was, the guilt of this whole operation, the way it made her feel like an awful, evil person until she remembered why she was doing it and then let the regret wither away).

She knocks and hears his welcoming shout that the door is open, the aroma of some sort of meat and rice and sweet vegetables filling the apartment, making her mouth water instantly.

“Make yourself at home, love,” he states from the kitchen and she walks into the small living room, placing the box on the couch and unpacking its belongings, trying to keep her sinful cackle at bay. “Dinner will be ready shortly, and the game’s just about to start.”

“Mmkay, sweetie,” she hums, as she walks the very  _pink_ comforter to his bedroom, resting it atop his own, smoothing it out and grinning mischievously. She takes the other items (tampons, sanitary pads, a few disposable razors and a newly purchased tube of Vagisil that she picked up on her way over) and places them in the cabinet over his sink. She fits the toilet seat cover (in  _pink_ , of course) over the porcelain lid, and places the fresh container of potpourri atop the toilet to complete the disgustingly feminine transformation.

She nearly floats as she makes her way back to the living room, taking a few stuffed bears and placing them on the couch before taking her collection of CDs and arranging them atop his stereo.

“Scary, Sporty, Baby, Ginger, Posh,” she recites, pointing to the epic Spice Girls shrine she's now adorned his stereo with (god, he’s going to  _kill_ her, especially when he finds Celine Dion's greatest hits hidden underneath). “The gang’s all here!”

He decides to stroll into the living room after the cry of Scary Spice rings through his speakers. She sings along with the first verse, hands flowing above her head, creating a sensual, graceful path in the air on their way down. She sways to the music, feeling his heated gaze on her hips, the red sundress doing wonders for her curves (and she’s downright nasty for wearing it, the top cut low enough to drive him crazy).

“You keep dancing like that, love,” he murmurs, all but swaggering towards her. “You’ll drive a man senseless with want.”

She smirks as she picks her skirt up, swishing it from side to side as the rap part of the song comes up (the part she’d practiced in the cab ride over, not that she’s really trying or anything).

“I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want! So tell me what you want, what you really really want! I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna really really really want  _Killian Jones_!”

His eyes widen bemusedly as he takes in her now neurotic dance as she chants the chorus across his living room (she hopes she looks like a bizarre imitation of Elaine on Seinfeld, because she just knows she’s gone from sexy to eccentric in record time).

“I noticed your comforter in the bedroom,” Killian begins, shouting over the loud thrum of music. “And what’s that you’ve got in the box, love?”

She stills, glances over at the small plant before picking it up. “Oh, that!” She giggles bashfully. “It’s a baby fern, small and desperate for care and affection, just like our relationship.” She skips towards a nearby shelf, placing the fern in a spot nearest the sliding windows leading onto his balcony.

“Alright, then.” He looks a little puzzled, but shakes it off surprisingly well (damn it) and pulls a seat out for her, taking the remote and turning off the stereo to switch it out for the television. “Game two, milady. Front row seats with quite a delicious meal prepared for the beautiful woman joining me tonight.”

She blushes, takes her napkin and tucks it into the top of her dress as he zips away to grab dinner. He returns with something that smells delicious, her stomach rumbling as soon as it’s brought closer to her, and he begins to prepare her plate.

“Venison in a teriyaki glaze with rice pilaf and roasted carrots,” he rattles off.

It’s wonderful, and it looks amazing (he must have spent  _hours_ on it) but she’s here to lose him, not to praise him for his skills.

It’s time to turn on the  _crazy_.

“I... I can’t,” she starts as the tears well up in her eyes with impeccable accuracy, and she turns away, pretending to gag on the smell. “I can’t eat this.”

“Whoa there, love.” He sounds worried as he places the tray down beside him, his hand grazing the small of her back. “Everything alright?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” she reassures him, biting her lip because she’s trying not to laugh at herself. “This is all so beautiful. I just...”

“If it’s the venison, it won’t hurt you to try it,” he begins, and she doesn’t want him to peg her as just a picky eater. “My mates eat it all the time and—”

“I don’t eat  _meat_ , Killian!” she cries out on a broken sob, head falling to her hands (because now she’s grinning like an idiot at herself, so she bites her tongue to make herself cry harder). “Poor little Bambi, all alone in the wilderness, looking for his mama and all of a sudden _BAM_!” Her hands come up to frame her face, her expression contorting into one of ugly sadness. “And then she’s  _deeeeeadddd_.”

Killian steps back on a frustrated sigh and fetches his keys.

* * *

They end up at some vegan joint one of her friends frequents in SoHo, and he ends up ordering them two bowls of tofu and green leaves and barley and walks it to their table. The place has a strange odor and an even stranger clientele and he would never find himself caught dead in here, let alone with a  _date_.

Emma comes back from the bathroom, he presumes, and sits down to enjoy her meal, swirling the contents of the bowl around with her fork as she sighs, loud and clear.

“Something wrong, love?” he exhales, because he’s just about had it with tonight, and it’s nine-thirty, so the Yankees are probably somewhere in the sixth inning, and this place has zero service so he can’t even check his phone, and really, he can’t take much more of this if she’s going to keep pulling stunts like last night and tonight (seven more days after tonight,  _seven more days_ ).

“No, just a little indigestion, I think,” Emma responds, still playing with her barley, holding one hand over her stomach.

The waitress strolls over, checks out their table and Emma’s bowl full of what he chalks up to cow food, and raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay with the barley, ma’am?” the waitress asks.

Killian watches as Emma shakes her head before her lips begin to quiver, just like when he served her the venison and dear Lord help him,  _not this again_.

“My boyfriend thinks I’m fat!” she shouts, tossing her fork at him, barely missing his chin with it. “I can’t eat in front of you, Killian! I just can’t! You’re making me self-conscious!”

She sobs uncontrollably for the second time tonight, and gets up to storm back to the bathroom. The waitress eyes him up, as do the other patrons in the restaurant, their gazes hot on his skin as he feels the temperature rise, his hand reaching up to loosen the tie around his neck.  _Bloody hell_.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think she’s fat,” he mutters, but the waitress isn’t buying it, and neither is the couple across from him, so he shrugs in defeat and lets his head fall onto his forearms.

She’s smirking when she returns, eating her meal with delicate ease, and he’s never been more aggravated in his life.

* * *

This is way too amusing as he pouts on their way towards the elevator, arms crossed over his torso as the bell dings and the door opens to his floor. He broods the entire walk down the hallway, grumbles as he puts the key in and lets her enter first, and then heads straight for his couch, plopping down with such an exhausted display of frustration, she has to bite her cheek to keep from laughing.

She hasn’t even started on the really intense stuff, the level five clinger moves that Elsa listed as “classic Mary Margaret after date two,” and he’s already cranky.

He turns the television on, checking ESPN for the final score of the game they didn’t get to see.

“I still can’t believe Jeter hit that,” she mutters, and he darts his eyes towards her, a scowl on his face while he comprehends what she just said.

“I beg your pardon, love?” he questions, slightly offended by her remark. “How would you know he hit that?”

Emma panics (she should have just kept her mouth shut).

He doesn’t know that she snuck behind the back curtain of that vegan joint, noshed on a beef burrito with Pedro, the very lovely cook, and his friend Jose, the sous chef, and hollered in victory when Jeter hit a grand slam in the sixth inning that most likely cinched the game for the Yankees.

But she's invested in the game and the team, and Jeter  _is_  a forty year old shortstop who is inching dangerously close to retirement (so yeah, she  _was_ surprised) but she shouldn’t have let him know that and now he’s on to her, his mouth turning into a sly smirk as he studies her.

Shit, shit,  _shit_.

“I... I just... I mean, he’s old and...” she stutters, trying desperately to find an excuse until she pounces him, pushes him back on the couch and kisses him senseless.

He responds, as any warm-blooded male would, by grabbing her ass and hauling her into him, allowing her legs to straddle his narrow hips. He grabs the back of her head, anchoring her so he can practically plunder her mouth with his tongue before she’s unbuttoning his shirt, shoving the tie over his head and tossing it carelessly behind her back, running her fingernails down the coarse layer of dark hair across his chest.

(God, she wishes she wasn’t going to screw this up in about five seconds, because there’s goddamn heat under her skin and between her thighs, and she could really use a good romp in the sack right about now.)

Her hand cups him through his jeans and he arches his hips into her touch, groaning as he guides his lips down her jaw and along the column of her neck.

“Gods,  _Emma_ ,” he murmurs on a broken shudder, and she leans back, takes in the kiss-stained color of his lips, the dilated pupils of his eyes as she begins to unbuckle his belt.

“Hmm, let’s see if Princess Sofia wants to come out and  _play_ ,” she purrs, making a cat noise as she claws her fingers at his crotch.

“Wait, what the bloody hell did you just say?” he interjects, trying to squirm away, but she plants her hands firmly on his hips, keeping him in place.

“Little, big, little, big,” she chants, as she lets her hands glide from his hips to his thighs. “We will find out soon.”

“Oh no, no,  _no_. You... you cannot name my... my  _thing_  after a princess!” He pushes her aside, practically tugging her off his body and shoving her onto the couch, trudging past her. “Bloody hell, Swan, if you’re going to name it, at least name it something masculine.”

“Like what?” she asks, picking up one of the stuffed bears and hugging it close to her chest.

He’s running his fingers through his hair, huffing as he paces in front of her. She’s winning,  _she’s_  got the upper hand, and dear god, this is an adrenaline rush like no other.

“Like Spike, or... or Butch, or  _Captain Hook_!” he suggests, and she grins impishly.

“What did you say?”

“Spike,” he huffs out.

She shakes her head. “No, after that.”

“Uh, Butch?”

She shakes his head even harder, biting her lip as she starts giggling wildly. “No, after  _that_ , silly!”

He sighs, rubs his face with both hands before he answers. “ _Captain Hook_.”

She purrs, takes the stuffed bear with her as she slinks over to him. “Does Captain Hook want to come out and play?” She takes the bear’s paw and runs it down his exposed chest, growling as she glides it past the hem of his jeans (she is enjoying this  _way_  too much). “Does he want to set sail on my high seas?”

He grabs her shoulders and shakes them, pushing her back from him. “Due to... um... an unforeseen mutiny on board the... the Jolly Roger, the Captain has... eh... walked the plank.”

“Oh,” she whispers, snickering a little before backing away. “Well, then I suppose I should get going. Bye, bye Killy bear.” She tosses the bear to him, then meanders out of the apartment as if nothing weird had happened at all.

She’s evil, wicked, absolutely outrageous, and she might even drive him away in five days at this rate, because no sane man would put up with a woman acting like that for much longer.

She enters the elevator, humming contentedly to herself because this is all going according to plan when the loud thud of his boots makes its way down the hall, his strong hand holding the elevator door open right as it’s about to close.

“Can I see you again?” she hears in that British lilt that should be making her knees go weak, but instead, is just confusing the crap out of her because it’s light and soft and his gaze is warm and inviting and there’s this ridiculously earnest smile quirking at the corners of his lips.

(She was mentally insane for about four hours there. What the hell is he doing?)

“I’m sorry, what?” Her eyes go wide and she can’t actually believe he’s asking for another _date_. With  _her_.

“Maybe tomorrow? Lunch? In the park?” His shirt is still unbuttoned, and he’s leaning against the frame of the elevator. He literally looks like sex on a stick, the tan skin of his toned abdomen and dark hair of his chest on display for her, and it’s hard to deny him anything when he looks like  _that_  (she should have picked the ugly guy with the toupee, now that she thinks of it).

“I don’t know,” she responds, still in disbelief over his request.

“Come meet me at work, 34th and 7th. It’s a few buildings down from the Macy’s in Herald Square.” He looks like he’s about to beg, and she can’t imagine what he sees in her, considering she’s amped it up to level six crazy. “Please, Swan?”

“I’ll think about it,” she proposes.

He reaches in, careful not to let the door close in on him, and grabs her hand, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. He brings her hand to his lips for a gentle kiss, opening up her hand to kiss her palm as well. “If you decide to, come around noon. Alright?” he whispers against her palm.

She nods, then releases her hand from his grasp and watches as he backs up, pleased grin on his face as the doors close and he disappears and suddenly, she feels like a complete fool for playing him.

* * *

He just wants to see her, and despite all the stupid and ridiculous stuff she’s doing, he’s just enamored by her the more he thinks about her. There’s something underneath it all, under the armor she places around her heart and the unbelievable behavior she insists on displaying that he connects with, that he feels a genuine pull towards.

And it’s been so  _long_ since he’s felt that connection, and he’s trying to look past the crazy to find the Emma beneath, to find the lost girl he knows is hidden behind those troubling jade eyes (it’s a look he wears all too often, and he can’t help but want to help her get past whatever demons may haunt her, bloody noble idiot that he is).

He keeps looking at his phone (it’s almost 12:30) wondering if she’ll actually show up or leave him high and dry when Robin comes waltzing into his office.

“How’s Princess Sofia doing?” he jokes and Killian nearly tosses his pen across the room.

“Shut your mouth, you git!”

“Should never have told me,” Robin chuckles as David peeks his head.

“Told him what?” the other man asks (and he probably already knows, what with Robin’s big mouth and all, so they’re just playing a game to rile him up, bloody buffoons).

Robin’s lips grow into an overly cautious smirk, and he covers his mouth, gesturing for David to come closer with his other hand. “His royal majesty, so to speak.” He makes a grand gesture to his own crotch, letting out a roar of a chuckle after he does so.

“I hate you both,” Killian grumbles as both men look on with suspicious glints in their eyes. “I only told you, Robin, to see if it had ever been done to you. She changed the name to Captain Hook anyway.”

“Just remember, this was  _your_ idea, pirate.” David pours himself a cup of coffee before sitting on the edge of the desk. “And after today, it’s only six more days until freedom.”

Killian nods, because while she’s quite the handful, he’s almost saddened by the prospect of such limited time to crack the shell of Emma Swan. He honestly wants to figure out what’s behind it all, regardless of her naming his—

“Killy bear!” he hears from the doorway, and he turns to see her, clad in a blue dress with white anchors. She’s got a large bag that matches her dress (larger than the one she  _accidentally_  left with him) and he can hear the muffled sound of a _bark_?

David practically chokes on his coffee as she comes waltzing in, arms held out wide to greet him. Robin suppresses what he can only register as a derisive snort (which Killian will gladly punch him for,  _later_ ) as she bounds into his arms with such glee, it has him bewildered beyond belief.

“Hello, love,” he manages to say as she holds him tight. The muffled barks grow louder as a small black lab pops its head out of the bag.

“I got us a puppy!” she shouts, jumping with excitement as she picks it up and out of the bag. “I named him  _Hook_.”

“A puppy? Wow, that’s... that’s wonderful, Swan,” Killian stammers, trying to hide the terror in his voice. “I wasn’t expecting quite a gift this early on.”

She grins before digging into her bag and producing a blue polo, complete with white anchors that match hers, except his are bigger and flashier and he can see his mates trying not to die with laughter. “And I got you this too! We can match!”

“That looks awesome! You should try it on,” David mocks, drinking his coffee to suppress his snicker.

“Oh, well we were going... going to lunch and...” Killian can see her pouting from his periphery, and he sighs as he shrugs the shirt over his head with a groan, a forced grin on his face as he fits it over his torso.

“Oh, that looks lovely,” Robin leers. “And the puppy's scarf matches too. What a delightful little pirate family!”

“You, me and Hooky poo are going to be so happy together,” she chants, fixing the collar of his shirt before smashing his cheeks together with her hand and shaking his face. “Our  _wittle_  happy family.”

_Bloody hell._

* * *

He manages to get her downstairs to Bryant Park and away from the judgmental (and slightly  _rude_ ) eyes of his co-workers. He’s exchanged her very thoughtful and awfully gaudy shirt for his own, ignoring the way she pretends to be angry about it, and leads them to the grill.

She picks a table under a few trees, and he orders them two salads (he’s not having a repeat of last night’s fiasco) and iced tea and heads back towards her, watching as she toys with the skull and cross bone charms around the puppy’s neck.

“A salad for the lady,” he says with a flourish of his hand, setting the bowl down in front of her.

She smiles in delight as she begins to dig in, offering the pup a piece of lettuce here and there.

Despite the way she acted upstairs, she’s different down here, when it’s just them and nobody else. He wonders if she’s trying too hard, if there’s a reason she acts the way she does, but his confusion is interrupted when she inches her hand over to grab his.

“I’m glad I came today,” Emma whispers, thumb brushing across his pulse point. He wonders if she notices the way it stuttered under her touch.

“Aye, as am I,” he murmurs, collecting a forkful of salad and popping it into his mouth. “So what are we to do with the pup?”

Her cheeks turn a remarkable shade of pink (he likes that about her, that he can make her blush like that, and he tucks it away for later). “We could share him. He’s so  _wittle_  right now, he should probably stay with his mama for a bit.”

The baby talk makes him pause, but he can’t help but think it’s part of this façade, something she’s using to seal herself off from anyone looking to get in. “That’s fair. And I shall keep him the next day, I presume?”

She nods, picking the puppy up and nestling him into her lap. “Hooky poo is going to stay with his daddy bear tomorrow and he’s going to have so much fun! Aren’t you, Hook?”

He rolls his eyes (he can’t help it) as she continues to play with the puppy, nuzzling her face into the lab’s snout. She’s smiling effortlessly, he notices, and he feels himself captivated by it, drawn in by the way the apples of her cheeks lift up and the jade of her eyes shimmers with gold and silver.

 _Gods_ , one minute she’s got him wanting to run for the hills and the next, she’s got him groveling at her feet like a man looking for water in a drought.

“Em? Em, is that you?” an unfamiliar voice asks, and he turns to see a shaggy haired fellow, dressed in jeans and a simple white shirt. His face is covered with stubble and his brown eyes zone in on Emma and the dog and then dart to him, perplexed and slightly amused before he breaks out into a loud, hearty chuckle. “It’s really  _you_!”

She looks up then, and Killian turns back to be met with the apprehension on her face, lines suddenly marring her forehead as her eyes go blank and her smile falters into a thin frown. He senses the way she wants to bolt, wants to  _run_  and it takes every ounce of strength to not stand up and punch the life out of this bloke for whatever harm he may have caused her (because he knows that look, he  _is_  that look, and nothing can erase the ache of losing someone, of never being  _enough_ ).

“Neal?” she croaks out, holding the puppy close to her chest for protection.

The man runs his hand through his hair before clearing his throat. “I didn’t recognize you, with the puppy and the salad and the... the boyfr—” He shakes his head. “How are you, Em?”

Her bottom lip trembles, her eyes darting around the park (she’s looking for an escape, he just  _knows_ it,  _feels_ it). “I’m... I’m  _fine_. I didn’t know you were back in the city.”

This man exhales, scratches the back of his neck nervously. “Just a routine monthly visit. For my dad’s business.”

Emma’s breath hitches, clutching the puppy tighter. “You come into the city once a month?”

He nods his head, scoffs a little (at himself, Killian hopes, for being a bloody  _fool_ ).

“Yeah, I... I just...” The man shuffles his feet, looks down at his shoes (they are pretty standard shoes, nothing remarkable about  _those_ , not in comparison to the breathtaking, and slightly neurotic, woman sitting in front of him). “I still feel bad about how things ended. Em, I’m  _sorry_.”

And there it is. The words stab him in the chest as if he’d been burned, not her, and he watches as she bites the inside of her cheek and tries to avoid this Neal’s gaze.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” she mumbles, and the man merely nods, admits defeat and pivots before heading off in the other direction.

Hook barks, loud and menacing even for a small pup, and Killian wants to pat him on the head, murmur _Good boy, Hooky whatever-it-is_ but she gets up, the puppy jumping out of her lap as she nearly storms towards the other man.

“Go ahead, Neal!” she roars, but he keeps on walking and ignores her. “Just walk away! It’s what you do best!”

Hook chases after her, whimpering at her feet before she scoops him up, heads back to their table and hastily grabs her pocketbook, placing the puppy in it and letting out a deep exhale (which he’ll admit, is shaky at best).

“I need to go.” She marches away but Killian leaps out of his chair and darts in front of her.

“Emma,” he pleads. “Emma, sweetheart, please. _Talk to me_.”

She stops. “I can’t... I just... I need to  _go_.”

And so, he lets her, doesn’t chase after like he foolishly wants to, because she’s made up her mind and pushed him out and whatever hurt hides behind those eyes (the hurt that bloke must have caused, and something more, he senses), he’s sure he’ll never be privy to it.

Suddenly, six days left doesn’t seem like nearly enough time.


End file.
